


can you replace my blood?

by Rovnsky (Lethally)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, post TDT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:04:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lethally/pseuds/Rovnsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Please, don't leave."</p>
            </blockquote>





	can you replace my blood?

The grass is soft under Kavinsky’s fingers, the soft breeze sliding over his tank top and curling around his naked arms. There is a ocean inside him, filled with contentment at the idea of feeling something, feeling the world around him, the sliver of sun on his cheek burning after all those seconds - or was it hours? His wild hair tickle his forehead, and all the world around them is alive, so bright and lively, loud and chanting.

He raises himself up on his elbow, the world tainted greyblue by his sunglasses, and Lynch, a stain of dark in the green woods, yet the most vibrant, the trees and the wind and the sun and sound all drawn to his presence. They all exist to please him, it seems, their Greywaren.

Lynch doesn’t even look at him, yet Kavinsky knows that he is aware of Kavinsky’s eyes on him, he is aware of everything he created and here Kavinsky only exists as seen by Ronan Lynch. He is slightly confused as to why his hair sways in the wind and his tattoos seem to curl around his forearms, vines instead of knives. Perhaps Lynch fears him still, even now, even when Kavinsky is nothing but a puppet.

The woods are singing a song to Ronan, a chant of peace and longing, they all seem to have the same goal in this world of dreams. The chant grows louder but it is useless, Lynch is getting up, brushing his black hoodie from the clinging leaves that yearn for realness. Kavinsky has learned that trying to cling on is useless, it only serves to keep Lynch at bay longer. Still somehow he has to try.

His naked hang reaches for the sleeve of Ronan’s black hoodie, Ronan’s clear eyes resting on him - even the tint of the glasses cannot distort the real sharpness of the Greywaren - and the words stumble over his lips, not as sharp as they should have been, a plea rather than a taunt.

“Please, don’t leave.”

Ronan stares at him for a minute or an hour, silent, before pulling his sleeve off Kavinsky’s hand, and with every step he takes to the edge of the clearing the life and the sun and the colors are sucked in his shadow, until the woods are dark and silent, still and lonely.

They have no notion of time in the woods, not hours or days, but he knows it will be a while before he feels warm and almost alive again. Sometime during the wait, Kavinsky forgets his name again, his self gone until he is only a nameless shapeless being waiting, waiting waiting.

Waiting for what?

It doesn’t remember.


End file.
